"...and where do you live?"

I sailed into Whittier on the second cruise ship ever to visit the port. It was the time of year where the sun never really sets and we had to make do with a couple of hours of dusk from around midnight to 1.30 am.

The ship docked at around midnight and, while the passengers were mainly in their cabins sleeping off the prime rib and baked Alaska dinner, myself and Brad the Canadian sound operator ventured ashore.

The dock consisted of a slab of crumbling concrete and absolutely nothing else. We walked through a gap in the sagging perimeter fence into Main Street which, in fact was the only street. The best way to describe the vista was 'post apocalyptic'. The town was dominated by what looked like a massive soviet era apartment block where, I was to learn later, almost all of the town's 214 population lived. A handful of low level buildings clad in timber and metal sheeting lined the streets, including the fire station which was  a burnt out shell.  The town's arsonist clearly had a sense of irony.
The road was edged with dirty snow drifts, holed boats and the rusty shells of abandoned cars. It was like walking into a Stephen King novel where a remote town is fighting for their very existence against a massive rabid dog. 

If there was a town called misery then this was it. It was as if the entire town had been constructed and dressed by a team of Hollywood craftsmen following a meeting with the Director "For the opening shot, I want to crane down to street which symbolises the utter devastation and emptyness of the character's lives..." The only prop that the team had missed was a rusty signpost which should have read 'Whittier. Population 215' with the 5 scored out and a 4 added below. The alteration having been made by a withered forefinger dripping with blood.